A Fallen King
by Alayne Stone
Summary: When Lucifer got free from the Cage again, Crowley knew he was done for. Deathfic, Crowley's POV. Warning: torture and blood.


Crowley would have laughed if he still had strength for that.

Lucifer covered every wall, the floor and the ceiling in devil's traps, although the big one he was lying in would have been quite enough. And he even added some Enochian decorations, looking down on the former King of Hell with a smirk. "Just in case" he said merrily. "I never figured out what exactly you are, but you seem to be more than just a regular demon. Oh well. Doesn't matter anymore, does it? You're not going anywhere."

Crowley knew that too well. He couldn't even get up, let alone get out of the protective circles. Lucifer had a lot of fun torturing him, and he couldn't smoke out even if he wanted. But he grew so fond of this body. And anyway, there was no escape. His meatsuit was bleeding out from dozens of wounds, and trapped inside with powerful spells, so was he. His shirt was soaked and he lay in a pool of blood, growing fast.

"Oh, and don't hope your blood breaks the line" Lucifer added, apparently reading his mind. "It's carved into the floor." That was the _finest marble_ and Crowley felt a bit angry about it. "And, you know, there is another trap above you."

He knew. He watched Lucifer painting that one. With his blood.

He was wondering why he was taken off the rack. It has been only a few days - he was expecting eternal pain in some special part of Hell, but they were still in his house.

"I have no time, sorry" Lucifer informed him. "Have some Winchesters to screw with, an angel to murder, a world to destroy. Bit busy. I'd really love to watch you die, but Mike is free too and I want intend outrun him." He knelt beside the demon and checked out his wounds. At least ten lethal stabs in his chest and abdomen - the rest were done for _fun_. Everything hurt, every move, every breath. "Just one more thing as goodbye." He held up the slim blade, thinking for a moment, before he sank it in Crowley's flesh. The demon tried his best not to scream, but it was dipped in salt and holy water, and he felt the dagger piercing his lung. Again. He let out a choked sob, gritting his teeth and grimacing in pain.

"Any last words before I check out?" Lucifer asked with a sheepish expression.

Crowley spit some blood in his face. "You just _had_ to ruin my favourite clothes, you bastard. Do you know how much I paid for them?"

"Defiance. Oh, I like that. Don't ever change." Lucifer got up. "Have fun dying."

He was gone in an instant and Crowley tried to get up in vain. He couldn't even move. He had been careful, god damn it. But as soon as Lucifer was free, he knew, deep down, that nothing will keep him out. No matter how he tried to angel-proof his home, all the Enochian they knew downstairs came from their lord. Lucifer knew exactly how to break in.

It was ironic, to think about it. The King of Hell, outwitted and trapped, abandoned by his allies the minute Lucifer was back, and no one to weep for him or hold a nice vigil till dawn. In the end, he was alone.

He just hoped the boys and their stupid (but beautiful) angel still had some tricks up their sleeve and would fuck up the devil royally. That would be so satisfying. And, knowing their history, entirely possible.

Crowley had to laugh just imagining Lucifer's face the last few times he was defeated by those kids. How embarrassing it could have been? But his laughter turned into a fit of coughing and spitting blood, and when it was over, he was so tired he could barely breathe, half curled up with pain and pressing his hand to that last wound, the one that hurt most.

_Damn you, what takes so long? I might be nothing now, but once I was the King of Hell. At least have the courtesy to show up, you son of a bitch._

But Death was either too busy to bother with him, or - he just wasn't important enough. Did demons even need a reaper? Technically, he had already died once, centuries ago, ripped apart by hellhounds. But his existence was so alike to _life_, he sometimes forgot he wasn't human anymore. No matter how he enjoyed good meals and wine and fine clothes, he was just deceiving himself all this time. Pretending he was something other than a damned soul who climbed quite high, only to fall.

_At least I had good times_, he thought, as the darkness began to embrace him. He was afraid. He who knew every kind of pain and mostly laughed at it, was terrified by the idea of the _nothing_ after death. _This is what good ol' William meant by "the rest is silence", like as not. Oh, I'm getting _sentimental_. Crowley, get your shit together and keep some dignity. When the Winchesters find you, let them think you weren't scared._

He shifted to a more comfortable position, slowly and crying out with every little movement, until he was lying on his back, then he clasped his hands on his chest, over the ruined black silk, closed his eyes, and let himself fall into the abyss.


End file.
